


Warning Stripes

by yonnna



Category: Baccano!
Genre: Child Abuse, Gen, References to child sacrifice, references to murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-13 14:10:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11761551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yonnna/pseuds/yonnna
Summary: After her first mission, Aging keeps an eye on Illness.





	Warning Stripes

**Author's Note:**

> For the purpose of this fic, I'm assuming that Aging was in the organisation when Illness first joined. I’m not sure whether I feel that to be the case, but it was convenient for what I wanted to do with this so. roll with it.

The first time her parents allow her to play outside, she is stung by a bee.

An hour earlier there was a hot knife peeling the skin off her back in thin layers, and this is a pinprick. She barely feels it at all. She does not scream or whimper, just sits cross-legged on the grass and looks at the stinger digging into her arm, looks and looks at it while the skin surrounding it grows feverishly red; then she looks to the bee — curled up in the dirt, its body small and motionless. She doesn't know how long she spends listening for buzzing in the silence.

She breaks out into hives, and her parents rush her inside to treat her. They remove the stinger, apply an ointment, bandage the swelling. They call in a doctor, a trusted follower. She recognises him through blurry vision, and blurry vision especially, because he's damage control. It's his job to keep her alive. (Not well, but alive.) She pulls through. _It’s a relatively mild reaction_ , her parents are told. They are given epinephrine to use on the off-chance it happens again. They do everything in their power to ensure that she does not die before her time.

Then they beat her.

Because she is _selfish, selfish, selfish_. _What was she doing? She should have told them the second it happened. She could have died!_ She could have died, and that would have been _awful, unthinkable, unthinkably selfish._ They need her. What would they have done if they had lost her so soon? Who would carry their prayers? Her death is not hers, it is theirs, _all of theirs_ , and she must learn.

When they are done they are smiling again, thanking her. Thanking her for surviving. Thanking her for living to feel this pain. She wonders whether it is a gift like her parents say, or whether it is a punishment. She wonders about the bee, curled up and motionless. She wonders whether it knew.

She had not known — that it could kill her. She had heard the buzzing, and, curious, she had picked the flower.

She does not understand _why_ it would try to kill her if it knew it would only die itself. She does not understand, until she does.

Her father presses the dagger into her hands and tells her to hide it beneath her dress. He reminds her how to hold it, where to aim for, how much force to put into the stab. He reminds her that if she twists it, it will hurt more. He reminds her to twist it. He reminds her that pain is sacred, and that just this once, just this once, it is her turn. He assures her this is a blessing onto her, a rare opportunity. Kill the girl and perhaps she will not suffer tonight. Kill the girl and perhaps, for the briefest time, she will be spared.

She listens so well. She follows every order. She grips the handle exactly as she’s shown, and she hears her own scream come out of the other girl’s mouth — then one of them is saved, and it is not her.

In its best efforts to save itself, the bee dies.

It must be a cardinal sin in nature to cling to life out of fear. This must be divine punishment. Her father tells her it is sacred, so it is sacred. The girl, the girl whose life she had almost taken, she is pious, and the beating she delivers is holy. The gargle of blood at the back of her throat is a hymn for their forgiveness.

There is a lesson, and she learns it. Whether she stings back or allows herself to be crushed, she cannot save herself.

There is a lesson, and it sticks.

Three years later, she shoots a man in the head.

It’s as close to self-defense as she could have hoped for on a mission to kill. He rushes towards her with a blade in his hand, and she draws her gun on instinct, pulls the trigger before she knows what she is doing. She does not expect it to hit, not really. She expects someone to rush to his rescue, she expects them to come back at her with vengeance, she expects punishment, and waits for it. In the story she knows, nothing that lashes out in fear survives. Nature does not spare anything so selfish and _cowardly_.

So she does not expect it to hit, but it hits, right on the mark, straight through the temple and out the other side of his skull. He collapses like a puppet with its strings cut, each individual joint giving way at once.

For a second she thinks she is dying, too — she cannot breathe and the lights keep flickering — but she lives, against all odds and everything she holds true.

 

* * *

Illness spends a long moment laying still, staring at the rickety ceiling fan as it spins overhead. She feels limp, like someone cut her open and removed her bones one by one — but she also feels too heavy for that to be true, weighed down to the bed that she cannot will herself to _try_ to sit up. She hears the door open and lets her head loll onto its side, discovering a new ache in her neck.

“About time you're awake!” comes Aging’s voice, and if she were _not_ already awake, the booming sound of it would have done the job. Illness doesn’t know the woman well, other than knowing that she’s the only one among the mercenaries, but she’s unmistakable. She shuts the door behind her, chuckling. “I was starting to think you were never gonna come to. Rough mission, huh?”

She does not respond immediately. She tries, but her throat is unbearably scratchy, and she must strain to get the words out.

“Uh, how long has…” She coughs. “H-Has it been?”

“A week,” says Aging seriously. Illness jolts up just as she tosses a bottled water her way, and it lands deftly on her lap.

“Wait —” she croaks, “W-wait, really? A, A —”

“Nah, I’m kidding.” Aging plops down on the end of the bed, grinning easily. “More like, I dunno, an hour?”

Illness scrunches her face up, and lets out a huff, unscrewing the cap with agitated energy. She drops it beside her and takes a large gulp of water. It irritates the soreness of her throat on the way down, but eases the lingering nausea.

“Gotta say, I wasn’t expecting you to be sick like that. Kinda figured you’d be more used to it.”

“Used to…?”

“Seeing dead bodies.” She laughs again. “With everything I’ve heard about you.”

She swallows, setting the bottle down on the side table with a trembling hand. “Th-That’s not...”

By the time they had discovered her back then, by the time they had discerned that she was not dead like the rest of them, she had spent nearly half an hour lying among the bodies of her family and their followers; she had not been sick then, even though the stench had filled her lungs until she was sure she was suffocating. Death is not pleasant, but there are worse things — the guilt, the shame, the unnaturalness of it. The knowledge that she is only here because today she traded a corpse for her life.

“You’ve never killed anyone before, right?” Aging presses, as though reading her mind. Illness shakes her head, breath too shallow to say more.

Following her silence, she stretches her arms above her head and smirks. “Anyway, you might wanna go get washed up. No offence, kiddo, but you stink.”

Illness pouts, folding her arms over her chest, and makes to protest. She stops when she catches the scent on her clothes — an admittedly revolting mixture of gunsmoke, blood, and vomit — and covers her mouth with her hand. Her eyes sting.

“Hmph, you coulda been nicer about it, you… you, uh, big — gigantic jerk.”

She stands shakily and gathers a change of clothes. Aging’s laughter sees her out the room.

 

* * *

Illness does not speak much when she returns from showering. Aging asks her a few more questions, but no more to do with the mission: _what does she do for fun? What does she like to read? What’s her favourite movie?_ She must have answered that last one for the other Mask Makers a hundred times, but she answers again. She rings out her still damp hair and makes an attempt to braid it, dripping water onto the oversized t-shirt she had changed into; the choppily cut strands stay in place poorly, and she unbraids it, giving automatic responses all the while.

After some time, it becomes clear that Aging does not intend to leave. Maybe she is on orders to ensure that she is coping after her earlier episode. Maybe, Illness thinks, she is on orders to ensure that she does not make a run for it, or try to off herself. It’s not as though her feelings matter beyond how they affect _them_. It’s not as though the thought has not crossed her mind — does not run circles around her mind. Someone is dead because of her, and she should never have lived long enough for that to become a reality in the first place.

Maybe, she considers, maybe Aging _pities_ her. This worries her most of all.

She doesn’t deserve pity. She doesn't even feel that bad, not really — that’s the worst part. With the nausea subsided and the body out of sight, she is… _relieved_ , relieved that she is still a living, breathing thing. She is not sorry that he is dead before his time; she is sorry that she is alive past hers. She is sorry that she wants this life enough to put a bullet in his head. She is sorry that she does not have better choices. Or she is not sorry, she is _angry_. Even her regret is selfish.

But to die would have been a selfish act, too. To die would have been betrayal. Her life is not hers, it’s the Mask Makers’, and if the Mask Makers tell her that she is supposed to kill to keep herself alive, maybe that’s the truth. Maybe she’s more wasp than bee. Maybe there’s no punishment for surviving but her own sickness.

Maybe Aging is a friendly person. Maybe she just likes talking. Maybe she has nothing better to do.

She tries a ponytail next. The loose strands stick out at odd angles, so she unties it. She stretches the elastic between her fingers until it snaps, rebounding against her skin.

“I’m getting kinda bored here. Hey, I know,” Aging says as she winces. “Let’s me and you go downtown and look around. At least with the boss taking care of food and all you must have some spending money.”

“Uh…” She raises her head, brow furrowed. It's true, of course. As far from her mind as the thought has been during the day’s events, she does get a stipend like the rest of them. The one from last week sits in an envelope in her drawer now, unopened.

“Bet you feel lucky. Not many kids your age are earning a paycheck.”

Illness stares, bewildered by the suggestion that _lucky_ is what she should consider herself. Somehow the shame of knowing that she’s capable of murdering people to save her own skin is not made any better by the fact that she’s being paid for it.

“Well, yeah, but…” she murmurs, grinning bitterly. “Not many, um, not many kids my age are _killing people_ , ya know?”

“Ha, c’mon.” Aging heaves her broad shoulders into a shrug. “Don’t tell me you’d rather be stuck in school or something.”

Illness pauses to consider. She considers, and she considers that _yes_ , school is exactly where she would rather be: a place where she could have friends, where she could learn about things like math and science instead of the fastest way to stop someone’s heart, where she could be a normal girl — but she stops the fantasy short. Whether it is what she wants or not, a person like her could never _belong_ there. She hushes herself, and Aging charges on.

“If I could've done this at your age, I would’ve had the time of my life.” She’s smiling from ear to ear as she declares it. Illness tries her best not to be repulsed. “But I guess everyone’s different!”

“You’re, um, kinda a freak,” Illness says at length. “It’s okay, I guess, I just… Dunno if you knew.”

“What was that stuff about being nice?”

“Huh? I don’t get it. Did… Did I say something mean?” Illness tilts her head, frowning. “I mean, I, y’know, I think _I’m_ kinda a freak, too. I must be! I must — there must be something wrong with me if I can —”

Aging only laughs, louder than ever, and waves her hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it, kiddo.”

She shifts uncomfortably for a moment, then gets to her feet.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay. Let’s — uh, i-if you want to, let’s go.”

She hates being stuck in this room, anyway. Aging’s right; it’s boring. She isn’t supposed to have the blinds open, but she does, and even the view from the window is boring, nothing but the brick wall of the building next door and the concrete of the alleyway below. She hadn’t been able to bring her things with her, because most of them were destroyed during the raid of the manor, and the ones that weren’t were too bulky to travel with. — That frustrates her, too. They _travel_ , they have travelled all over the continent since she began her training with them, but all she sees is ugly hotel rooms and whatever dull, grey buildings they use for practice — and now she gets to add to that list the awful, grimy corners where their work is actually done, run-down when they get there and rubble when they leave.

She wants to get out. She wants fresh air, and something other than rot and sickness to think about. 

“We could — I, um, I thin – think I want to get different clothes, so…” she trails off. 

“Gahaha, not a fan of the wardrobe the guys picked out for you?”

She lowers her chin, pulling at the baggy fabric and pursing her lips.

“To be honest? It’s all super ugly, y’know?”

“You really aren’t afraid to say what you think,” remarks Aging, amusement on her face.

“Thanks! Oh, wait… is that bad? Those guys, they said I shouldn’t —”

“Nah, ‘course its not bad.”

She gives her a pat on the shoulder, which lands with such force she almost loses her footing.

“Keep that spunk, kid. You’re gonna need it.”

**Author's Note:**

> I really wanted to go with this metaphor but it was also extremely difficult because every time i think of bees i think of the bee movie, so it took a lot of effort to take it seriously. I was gonna put that in the beginning notes but then I was like "... If i do that they'll ALSO only be able to think about the bee movie..." so I decided against it. See. I can make good calls sometimes. 
> 
> ANYWAY this came from a need for me to write Aging and Illness interacting, mostly, so I do intend to write a second half that is their outing, but I don't have that quite outlined yet so expect a part 2 at some point in the future.


End file.
